


Things Tim Knows Logically

by ShadowAndPurgatory



Category: The Mechanisms (Band)
Genre: (?), Angst, I dunno what happened here, I just wrote words, Tim gets mechanized and freaks out, Where Tim likes to hide in the kitchen cabinet, jonny sings to try and calm him down, nastya is there, this is based off an rp twitter thing, this is my first mechs fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:15:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25843417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowAndPurgatory/pseuds/ShadowAndPurgatory
Summary: Tim knows he should be dead. Knows he’s been blinded. Knows he should be alone. So why aren’t any of these things true?
Comments: 4
Kudos: 74





	Things Tim Knows Logically

Logically speaking, there are a few things that Tim knows. He knows that, logically, it won’t make a difference if he opens his eyes. After all, his eyes are gone. 

He also knows that, logically, he’s basically dead in every way except that his heart is still beating. After all, even if the pod had a steering mechanism, he wouldn’t be able to steer it. 

Logically, ( _and he has to keep thinking logically, he can’t let himself feel anything about his situation_ ) he knows that dehydration will be his end, not starvation. After all, the body’s need for water sets in far more quickly than it’s need for food. 

Logically, he knows that nobody is coming to save him, and he will die quietly in space. After all, who would think that he’s still alive? ( _slightly less logically, he knows that this pod will be his tomb, and that thought scares him. He’s scared, though he won’t admit it to the nobody who shares his pod_ )

But logic can’t explain everything. Like the voices that Tim can hear, distantly. Logically, he knows that there is nobody who can be talking. But logically, he _also_ knows that the whirring of machinery in the life pod doesn’t sound like voices. ( _maybe he’s well and truly gone mad, beyond his maddened bloodlust_ ) He can’t make out words, or even distinct voices, but there is nevertheless an irregular murmuring, like people speaking very far away.

Logic can’t explain the _smell_ either. The air smells of sterilizing chemicals, a scent which he recognizes from his time in the med tents in the war, although the smell of death and old, infected wounds, a smell that pervaded the air in the med tents, is absent. Logically, the only thing he smells should be the old blood caked into his uniform and matted into his hair. 

And what about the fogginess in his mind, which he tries _so_ hard to clear away with logic? The only explanation logic offers is death, which, no, surely he can’t be dying _already_. 

Logically, he is _certain_ that if his mind was just a little less foggy, he could use logic to piece together what all of these things meant. But it isn’t and he can’t, so clearly, he’s either dead, dying, or crazy.

Logic leaves him entirely when he can feel his body being moved by a pair of cold hands, forcing him to go from lying down to sitting up. He tries to speak, but his voice sounds distant and muffled, barely recognizable in his own mind.

Then he feels a warm hand on his shoulder, different from whoever moved him. He jerks away, struggling against his unseen assailant.

Then he feels something removed from his ears, and he is overwhelmed by all the sounds he suddenly hears.

“-emme go help please stop,” he can hear, and he realizes that the blubbering voice is his own.

He can hear a woman speaking in what sounds like a Russian accent with just a hint of English mixed in. “Why did you remove his ear mufflers? I imagine that it will be overwhelming.”

Then he hears a harsh, more familiar voice off to his side, by the hand on his shoulder. He can’t put a face to it through the fog. “Hold on Nastya, I’m gonna try something,” he says. He sounds annoyed. “You shouldn’t question your captain.”

“Jonny, you _are_ not the captain.”

“Oh shut up, Nastya, and let me try this.”

“I’m not stopping you.”

Tim is still struggling to speak, trying to make sense of what’s happening. Then he hears something he knows.

“Gassed last night, and gassed the night before. Gonna be gassed tonight if we’re never gassed no more.” 

Tim feels the person to his side nudge his shoulder. “C’mon Tim. You know this. You sang it every _fucking_ night, you better know this,” he says before going back to the song.

“When you’re gassed, you’re sick as you can be, ‘cause novichok and mustard gas are much too much for me.”

Tim turns his head towards the voice. He can feel his heart rate going down. “...Bertie?” His voice shakes.

Bertie is dead. ...Is Tim dead as well? If Bertie’s here too, then, maybe being dead is okay. 

There is a tense silence, before he feels the cold hands behind his head, and then something is being removed from his eyes, and he can _see._ There is no moment where the world comes into focus, everything is clear. 

And that, logically, makes no sense. It _can’t_ make sense. He _knows_ his eyes were burnt out, _knows_ that he was blinded, _knows_ that he should be floating in the vacuum of space in a pod. 

But, against all logic, he sees his surroundings in perfect detail. He sees that he is in what appears to be a lab, sitting on a shiny metal table. In front of him, holding bloody gauze and bandages, is a woman with glasses and short brown hair. 

Tim looks to his right, and he sees Jonny. Jonny _fucking_ “D’Ville,” whose head Tim had last seen in a box, but here it is, firmly attached to his body. 

Tim punches him, on instinct. Fucker. Jonny recoils, and Tim takes the opportunity to bolt. He shoves the woman with the bandages out of his way, running through the open door. He doesn’t know where he is, doesn’t know what they did to him, doesn’t know what’s happening. So instead of figuring it out, he runs through a maze of hallways. The metal flooring is cold against his bare feet.

Lights click on ahead of him, and he follows them, even though he doesn’t know where they lead. He passes by a handful of people, but doesn’t stop for them even as they try to talk to him.

The lights lead him to a dark room. When the lights click on, he sees that he’s in a kitchen. He throws open the largest cabinet he can find. It’s full of pots and pans, so he throws those to the ground too. The clang that they make is satisfying. It’s cathartic. Tim climbs inside and shuts the door. It’s dark, which he’s used to.

Now that his heartbeat is no longer roaring in his ears, Tim hears something. A whirring in his skull, behind his eyes. Or. No. No wait. It _is_ his eyes. Tentatively, he reaches up and touches them. There is no pain in the cold, metal eyes, only a slight shift in the whirring sound as they adjust their focus. What _happened_ to him? 

The cabinet is dark and cramped. His knees are pulled to his chest. Tim shuts his eyes, and his wrong, mechanical eyes cannot cry. 

Tim is tired. Emotionally. Mentally. Physically. There is no room for logic. He tries to puzzle it out, but it doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense.

In the end, Tim goes to sleep, and he stays in the cabinet for a very long time.


End file.
